0451471040

by Kimberly Lang

  “Gary’s Barbeque okay?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “How long do you need to finish up here and shower and such?”

  “Forty-five minutes, give or take?”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.” She grabbed the handle of Nigel’s carrier and left before she could weasel her way back out of it.

  As she put Nigel in the car and fastened the seat belt around his carrier, she noticed Tate’s hoodie on the floor.

  So much for that limiting-contact idea.

  Chapter 9

  Two and a half hours later, she was seated at Tate’s kitchen table licking rib sauce off her fingers. She’d given up trying to be dainty or even remotely ladylike one rib in, and now she was just trying to keep the majority of the sauce off her face and shirt.

  Tate’s house was a mirror image of Mrs. Kennedy’s—one of the three floor plans the developers offered after Hurricane Betsy destroyed much of Magnolia Beach in the 1960s. But where Mrs. Kennedy’s house was firmly dated and decorated in that same decade, Tate’s house had been completely rehabbed and redone in earthy tones and clean lines. It suited him—it was comfortable and modern and very livable. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d been expecting, but she’d been pleasantly surprised, nonetheless.

  Tate was surprising her as well. He’d answered the door barefoot and wearing baggy cargo shorts, his shoulders and chest nicely outlined by an almost-too-tight T-shirt. His hair had still been a little damp from his shower, and he smelled of warm, wet skin and soap. She’d nearly dropped the food off and left, figuring she could come up with some kind of excuse.

  But then Tate turned on the charm at a level she’d never witnessed from him before, and even though she tried to resist, she was being won over by it. By him.

  He was funny and easy to talk to, too.

  And while part of her wanted to question what she was doing here, with him, the rest of her didn’t care. She knew this wasn’t a date, but it was fun to pretend, just for a little while. It had just been so long since she’d done anything remotely like a date, and she was having a good time.

  As for Tate, she had no idea what was going through his head, what he might think this was, but he was certainly staying on the safe side with his charm. It was so platonic and friendly, in fact, that if it hadn’t been for that moment last night, she wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

  Of course, she was also operating on approximately two hours of sleep, so this could all just be a hallucination. It was all the more reason to not try to read anything into this other than exactly what it was. A meal. Between friends.

  Because they were actually friends now, not just two of Helena’s friends. That much she knew, and she wasn’t unhappy about it.

  As long as she didn’t overthink it, at least.

  “Next thing I know, this cat has climbed me like a tree, blood is going everywhere, and one of the other students starts puking his guts . . . Sorry,” he interrupted himself, shaking his head. “I forget that most people don’t have conversations involving bodily fluids at the dinner table.”

  “It’s okay. You weren’t graphic enough to turn my stomach. I guess you kinda have to have a strong stomach to be a vet. Or any kind of doctor.”

  “It’s not necessarily a strong stomach. It’s just accepting that stuff comes out of bodies and dealing with it.” He shrugged. “Sometimes you still gag, but you deal.”

  That made her laugh. “I think that would be a great mantra.”

  “What?”

  “You know, a Zen life mantra thing. ‘Sometimes you gag, but you still have to deal.’ That’s life in a nutshell.”

  “Very true. It’s a picturesque, if slightly gross, sentiment, but true nonetheless.”

  She eyeballed another rib, debating whether she had room. “So if bodily fluids don’t gross you out, is there anything that does?”

  “Bugs,” he answered without hesitation. “Killing bugs, specifically. They make that crunching sound, and that’s just gross.” A little shudder shook his shoulders.

  She dropped her napkin onto her plate dramatically. “And with that, I’m done with my dinner.”

  Tate looked a little abashed. “You asked.”

  “I was done anyway,” she assured him.

  “Your turn.” He leaned back in his chair, seemingly completely at ease. “Tell me interesting tales from the coffee shop.”

  “There are fewer of those than you might think. Coffee and pastries lack drama.” She laughed. “Mainly because they don’t fight, bite, or bleed.”

  “True. But you deal with people. They’re far more dangerous.”

  “Only before they’re fully caffeinated.” He laughed, which made her smile. It felt good. “You have to deal with people all day long, too.”

  “Yes, but I also get to pet the kitties and the puppies all day long. There’s nothing better than that for stress relief.”

  She loved how he unashamedly expressed his love for the critters he treated. “Do you ever get tired of them?”

  “The animals?” He looked surprised at her question. “No.”

  Leaning back, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why don’t you have a pet?”

  “Well, I work long hours—sometimes even through the middle of the night,” he reminded her, “so they’d be left alone a lot. A cat might be okay with that, but not a dog. And since I often foster cats and dogs until they get homes, there could be interspecies fighting. Maybe one day, though.”

  “I’m not sure I should trust a vet without a pet,” she teased.

  “I’ll remember that the next time you call me at two o’clock in the morning.” Tate winked at her as he went to the fridge to get the tea pitcher. After refilling her glass, he started to tidy up the table. “Thank you for dinner, by the way.”

  “And thank you for answering the phone at two o’clock in the morning.” Clearing the table seemed like her hint that it was time to leave, even if he had just refilled her glass. Tate had to be exhausted, and since this early dinner had extended into actual dinnertime, he was probably ready to call it a night.

  But then Tate sat back down, casually leaning back in his chair again, those long legs stretched out under the table. Okay, we’re not done. “How are things with the Children’s Fair?” he asked. “You all set?”

  “I think so. I keep going over everything, thinking I must have forgotten something pretty important somewhere, but everything seems to be ready to go. It helps, of course, that so many of the people have been involved with this for years and know exactly what they’re doing.”

  “I told you.” There was just a hint of smugness in his voice.

  “Yes, you did. Bask in it. If it all goes well, and we make the money goal, you can chant all the ‘I told you so’s you want.”

  “There won’t be any need for that. The fact that I’ll know, and you’ll know, and I’ll know that you know I know—that’s all the gloating I’ll need.”

  “Well, aren’t you the gentleman.”

  Tate leveled a look at her over the rim of his glass. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Okay, there was definitely something in his tone that time, and it raised the temperature in the room about ten degrees. And that smile . . . Damn. There was no way she was imagining it, but that didn’t mean she knew how to process it, either.

  It doesn’t matter, though, she reminded herself, because . . .

  That thought screeched to a halt when Tate’s fingers stroked gently down her arm. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Maybe you should call it a night.”

  The disconnect confused her. A touch at the same time he was putting an end to the evening? Was this a test of some sort? If she said she wasn’t tired, was she agreeing to something? Or was she misconstruing a friendly, compassionate touch? Was he just genuinely worried about her?

  She was enjoying herself and didn’t necessarily want to leave, and Tate’s face wasn’t giving her any clues, so . . .

&nbs
p; Either way, going home was probably her best bet. Maybe once she had a good night’s sleep behind her, she’d be able to make sense of it. “Yeah, you’re right.” She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “I also want to check on Nigel.”

  Tate stood, too, and once again she felt very aware of him. His size. His smell. She’d gotten so comfortable over the last couple of hours that she’d forgotten, but that touch . . . The situation had changed, and so had her focus. “I promise you,” he said, “Nigel’s fine. But I know you want to check on him all the same.”

  Mercy, his eyes.

  Yeah, she needed to go. Now.

  She nearly tripped over her feet on her way to the door. “Thanks again for last night.”

  He followed her. “Thanks again for tonight.”

  Grabbing her bag with one hand, she reached for the door with the other, landing on the knob at the same moment Tate’s hand did. Stepping back quickly, she trod on his foot, stumbling sideways into him.

  Sweet Mary, mother of God. She could feel her cheeks burning.

  Chuckling, Tate held her by the shoulders, steadying her on her feet. “Do you think you can get home on your own?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it. I’m obviously just really tired.”

  “Well, I’m sorry that I kept you up even longer, but I appreciate dinner and the company.”

  “It was the least I could do.” That sounded rude. “And I enjoyed it, too.”

  Tate was still holding her, but loosely, so even the tiniest step back would have broken the contact. But his hands were large and warm and felt nice, even if this whole situation was causing her insides to churn in conflicting and confusing ways.

  Then she made the mistake of looking up to meet his eyes. So blue and so kind and so . . . Oh. That heat was new. It paralyzed her, and everything slipped into slow motion.

  Tate was going to kiss her. That one thought ran through her brain on repeat, and although one small rational part of her knew it was a bad idea, the rest of her wanted him to. Badly.

  She was still surprised when he did. His lips were warm and gentle, offering just enough pressure to promise, but not demand. She wanted to melt into it, into him, and though she knew she shouldn’t, she kissed him back, rising up onto her tiptoes to extend the moment.

  His fingers tightened around her shoulders, and she let her tongue sneak out for one quick, fleeting taste of him, right before her brain kicked back in, causing her to rock back onto her heels and put some distance between them. Tate’s mouth followed hers, sucking gently on her bottom lip for one second longer—just enough to stoke the embers in her belly into a glow—before letting her go.

  Damn.

  But it was the shy half smile Tate gave her that slayed her, mixing sweet, gooey feelings with hot, long-repressed need. It was too much. “Good night, Tate.”

  “Good night, Molly. Sleep well.”

  The fact that it was still light outside made the “Good night. Sleep well” a little ridiculous-sounding, but the daylight burned off the magic and made what had just happened seem even more surreal.

  And it sucked.

  She wanted to barge right back in and kiss Tate until she couldn’t breathe, get up close and familiar with the planes and angles of his chest, learn the taste of his skin . . .

  But she couldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to.

  She had too much to lose, and good Lord, she had no idea how she could possibly explain it all to Tate. No matter what the people back home in Fuller thought, she did still know the difference between right and wrong, and this was pretty much the textbook definition of “wrong.”

  It just felt really right.

  Surely she’d earned that kiss. She deserved an amazing kiss from an incredible guy. She could give herself a little while to just enjoy the moment and worry about the possible repercussions later.

  It wasn’t as if she could let it go any further, so she might as well enjoy what she could.

  She’d focus on that. Just for a little while.

  Tate had kissed her.

  And she’d liked it.

  A lot.

  • • •

  It had been three days since Tate kissed Molly. He hadn’t really planned to do it quite like that, but the opportunity had presented itself and he didn’t regret it.

  Well, maybe it hadn’t been his smoothest move ever, but Molly hadn’t slapped him, either.

  And as far as kisses went, that one had been pretty damn nice. It had been a sweet, nearly G-rated kiss, the kind you felt in the heart, but the effect on him had been more NC-17 and he’d felt it all over.

  It had taken more control than he’d have said he possessed to let her walk out of there. Hell, if she only knew just how hard it had been and how much he’d wanted to lock the door instead, she’d be filing a restraining order on him just to be safe.

  So as much as it was killing him, he’d let the last few days pass without bringing up that kiss, trying to give her time to process it without being all stalkerish. He’d seen her a couple of times, but only in passing. She’d called him twice, but both calls were quick and focused entirely on the Children’s Fair, which was now less than a week away.

  Since everyone in town was really busy getting ready for the weekend events, he didn’t really take her distance too personally. Plus, Helena’s warning that Molly had “issues” and probably a bad relationship behind her meant he was trekking into possibly dangerous territory without a map. It would behoove him to be cautious. Hell, she’d been saddled with a huge project and had dealt with a serious health scare with a pet. That alone was enough to be dealing with at the moment. She didn’t need a lot of pressure from some guy right now just because he’d made a pass.

  But those three days had been a trial to his patience, and on day four he had none left. He wanted to see her, maybe even take her to dinner—and definitely kiss her again—so he went to Latte Dah after work.

  A large group seemed to be having a meeting of some sort in one corner, and a smaller group of teenagers had squared off in the other, disturbing the general tranquility that normally reigned in Latte Dah. Sam was behind the counter, working the cappuccino machine like a pro. At first, he thought Molly wasn’t there, but then he saw her, over at one of the smaller tables with Helena, both of them frowning and gesticulating as they spoke.

  Helena’s presence here gave him pause. He had to assume Molly hadn’t said anything to her about that kiss, simply because he would know if Helena knew. There was no way she’d let that pass without comment.

  But he couldn’t really talk to Molly—much less ask her out—if Helena was listening in.

  On the other hand, if Molly was feeling awkward about that kiss, Helena might give them a bit of a buffer, letting her ease into the idea. And regardless of anything else, he’d at least get to talk to her for a few minutes, allowing him to get a reading on the situation.

  “I would not go over there if I were you,” Sam warned from behind him as he headed in their direction.

  He turned to look at his sister. “Why?”

  “Because they are taking turns ranting and freaking out.”

  Sighing, he sat at the counter. “Memorial Day stuff?”

  Sam nodded.

  “I do not understand them. They’re capable, competent adults organizing a couple of community events. No one’s asked them to build a rocket or perform brain surgery, but to listen to them, you’d think dozens of innocent lives hung in the balance.”

  “Don’t be such an ignorant ass.”

  “I beg your pardon, Samantha Harris?”

  “You’re being very dense. Do you honestly think that if Helena screws up that bake sale or raffle people will just shrug and say, ‘Oh, well, no lives lost’? No, they’re going to bring up every stupid, dumbass thing she ever did in her life in order to ‘prove’ that no one should have let her be in charge of anything in the first place. This is trial by fire for her.”

  True. He hadn’t thought
of it that way, and he of all people really should have. “So what’s Molly’s excuse?”

  “This is her first time really being a part of this, much less being in charge. She is definitely feeling the pressure to prove herself and not let people down. And not only does she have to do it right, she’s got a fund-raising goal to meet as well.”

  “I talked to her the other night, and she seemed fine.”

  “I’m sure she is, overall. But even if she weren’t, she wouldn’t tell you.”

  That stung. “Why not?”

  “Because they need sympathy, not justice, right now.”

  “I can give sympathy.”

  Sam gave him a pitying “how can you be so stupid?” look. “You are incapable of straight sympathy. You’ll tell her she’ll do fine, there’s nothing to worry about—”

  “Well, it’s all true.”

  “And then you’ll start trying to sort out the problem and fix it.”

  “And that wouldn’t be helpful because . . . ?”

  “Because that’s not what either of them wants to hear right now. Let them freak out if they need to. They’re under pressure.”

  “All the more reason for me to go over there and see if I can do anything to calm her—them—down.”

  “No. There’s nothing over there for you to do. And they’re not in the mood to listen to other people anyway. I teasingly threatened to switch them both to decaf, and Helena looked like she was about to put my head on a platter.”

  He watched them for a minute. “They are taking turns talking, but they’re not looking at each other. Is that some girl-sympathy thing I don’t understand?”

  Sam was reveling in her superiority. “No. They’re talking at each other, not to. It’s venting,” she explained in a tone that clearly called him dumber than a bag of hammers.

  He let it pass, simply because he couldn’t take his eyes off Molly and Helena. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen—and with two sisters, he’d seen a hell of a lot of strange girl stuff. He could wish they’d just believe him when he told them everything would be fine—and that the world wouldn’t end even if it wasn’t—but Helena rarely listened to him and Molly wasn’t proving to be much better. “How long have they been at it?”